


thoughts of endless night time sky

by akamine_chan



Category: Sesame Street (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Gen, Yuletide, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 04:58:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2838869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sun's setting, and there's a flurry of activity as everyone rushes home.  It's getting late.  The light's just about gone and the last door slams shut, echoing down the empty Street.  It's almost dark, but everyone is behind locked doors and shuttered windows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thoughts of endless night time sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [krisherdown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/krisherdown/gifts).



> Note: This is a horror story. There is mention of death and blood, but none takes place on-screen.
> 
> Much thanks to my beta, Ande, as always. Title from _Vampires Will Never Hurt You_ by My Chemical Romance.
> 
> Krisherdown, I hope this suits. I saw the prompt and it wouldn't let me go.

The sun's setting, and there's a flurry of activity as everyone rushes home. It's getting late. The light's just about gone and the last door slams shut, echoing down the empty Street. It's almost dark, but everyone is behind locked doors and shuttered windows.

Oscar looks up and down the Street from the vantage point of his can, making sure that there's no one left. He's been the self-appointed lookout since almost the beginning, not retreating to the safety of his home until the siren wails that last warning.

It's been years since anyone's been caught out in the dark, but Oscar stays vigilant. The alternative is too horrible to contemplate; he still has nightmares about the screams and the blood. He can't shake the image of Big Bird hosing the gore off the sidewalks and into the gutters, weeping softly.

At one end of the Street there's a tiny memorial garden, a simple wooden bench and a patch of wildflowers. All the residents of the Street had come together to help, Big Bird and Cookie, the Count, Bert and Ernie, Grover, Mr. Snuffleupagus, Bob and Gordon and Susan. Maria and Luis, and all the others.

It had been Linda who'd come up with the idea of painting the names of the fallen on water-smooth stones, and Oscar had signed "Yes." Alice Snuffleupagus and Baby Bear and Jennie had volunteered to paint the names onto the stones, and once finished, they'd been placed carefully among the wildflowers they'd planted.

At some point, they'd designated the summer solstice as a day of remembrance. They gathered at the garden, lit candles and sang, and shared stories about those who were gone. Big Bird always brought his picture of Mr. Hooper and talked about how much he missed his friend.

They never mention what lives in the dark, though. It's the Snuffleupagus in the room, it takes up space in their minds, but to pay attention to it is to make it stronger. 

Whatever it is, it's been here as long as the Street has. It's taken too many of their friends and family, and Oscar's determined to never lose another member of the community if he can help it.

The last rays of the sun fade away and the siren blares, a deep, sonorous note that resonates down the Street, making Oscar's heart race with fear. There's something about the note, the way it echoes, that fills the Street with a sense of _wrong_ , of _other_ and Oscar _hates_ the sound.

He'd been told, once, that it was an air raid siren, repurposed to give warning for the coming dark, but he's long since forgotten who told him that. It doesn’t matter.

Oscar retreats into his can, pulling the lid down and making sure it's as secure as possible. He feeds Slimey and makes sure to mess up the place a little, just so he feels like he isn't keeping his home too neat. Slimey is already changed into his nightshirt and hat, so they pick out a book and Oscar reads to him until his little head starts to droop.

"Bedtime, Slimey," Oscar says, and Slimey agreeably climbs into bed, and Oscar makes sure he's tucked in. "Goodnight," he whispers.

"Goodnight," Slimey replies happily.

Oscar makes himself dinner, and eats it while reading the newest issue of _Garbage Monthly_. There's a fascinating article on turning landfills into bioreactors, which not only decomposes the garbage, but produces excess energy as well. He leaves his dirty dishes on the table and slouches on his couch, reading until he can't keep his eyes open any longer.

His bed is soft and comfortable, and Oscar can hear Slimey's tiny little snores. He falls asleep almost as soon as his head touches the pillow. His dreams are untroubled.

* * *

Oscar wakes, disoriented. It's late; he can tell by how dark it is. He blinks, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The compressor on his fridge kicks on, a low hum, and there's a clicking. The sounds seem loud in the otherwise silent house.

The fur on the back of his neck stands up, goosebumps chasing their way down his back, and his muscles twitch spasmodically. He's breathing fast, his body is screaming at him to run away, but he can't figure out _why_.

Something woke him, he's not sure what, but—

There's a noise, a loud clatter, not inside, but _out_. Like something being knocked over by clumsy feet. In the daytime, it would be a normal sound, the bustle of the residents of the Street, but at night—

At night, it means something completely different.

Danger.

Oscar carefully approaches his can. His hands are shaking, but he just clenches them into fists so it's not so noticeable. He's hunched in his trashcan, eyes closed and listening, straining to hear.

It's impossible, he's almost panting, and it's loud. He tries to relax, slow down, but it's not working, every sense is in flight-or-fight mode. He gasps when there's another thumping metallic rattle, close by. He holds his breath, and he can hear a faint susurration, like something slowly being dragged across the pavement. It's erratic and irregular, clearly not the sound of footsteps. There's no pattern to it, and Oscar inhales deeply through his nose, as quietly as he can.

_Sssshkt._

_Sssshkt._

The noise is getting closer, though Oscar can't tell _how_ close. And there's something else now, a raspy in-and-out sound, like a large animal breathing. It's terrifying. He's trembling, close to panic, and he's sure that whatever _it_ is, it's best that it doesn't know that Oscar is here.

He should go back to bed, pull the covers over his head and hope that whatever is outside on the Street passes him by, but something drives him to stay right where he is, shaking with dread.

_Sssshkt._

As carefully as he can, he pushes up on the lid of his can a tiny bit. It takes his eyes a few moments to adjust, and it's hard to see through the slot, but there's— _something_.

It's bigger than Mr. Snuffleupagus, taller than even Big Bird. It shambles slowly with an uneven gait, _sssshkt, sssshkt_. It doesn't have a definite form, just the barest outline of a shadowed mass. As it moves, Oscar thinks he sees a—a tentacle in the darkness, but he can't be sure.

He must make a sound; it turns toward Oscar, fast, a blur of motion, and Oscar ducks down and the lid settles with a faint _click_.

_Sssshkt._

Oscar covers his mouth with his shaking hand, because he knows it's aware of him; it senses him, and it's hunting him. It's near enough that Oscar can hear it breathing, and an underlying growl, and the _smell_ hits him, making him gag.

It's fetid and cloying, rotten meat and dried blood, and it makes Oscar's stomach turn.

_Taptaptap._

Claws skitter against the metal of his can, and he feels faint with his fear. He muffles a desperate whimper, and his mind stutters over inconsequential thoughts—who will take care of Slimey when he's gone? What about his family, and Grundgetta?

He stays as still as he can and waits, hoping against hope that the _thing_ moves on. He thinks of stillness and quiet, of the sadness in Big Bird's eyes, and _prays_. Time stretches out, an instant become and eternity. Then—

_Sssshkt._

_Sssshkt._

Oscar is sure that it's moving away. It has to be moving away. 

_Sssshkt._

It _is_.

He schools himself to patience, to be sure that it's moved on, before collapsing on his couch. The adrenaline makes him shake and it leaves an electric aftertaste in his mouth, but he's safe.

For now.

-fin-


End file.
